


Entity Designated Railroad-Alpha

by goddessofcheese



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcheese/pseuds/goddessofcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Access restricted to entity designated Railroad-Alpha.<br/>End token: I'm sorry, have a nice day!</p><p>A series of short fics based around the logs of the Railroad leaders in PAM's mainframe terminal, recording the triumphs and tragedies of the Railroad from 2266 to 2286 by its leaders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# \--- November 14th, 2266 ---

“The results are in.”

Whether they meant to or not, everyone in the room collectively held their breath and stared at the piece of paper held in Wyatt’s dark hand. A shade-less bulb dangling from the ceiling, the sole source of light in the rusted Red Rocket station, swung gently back and forth, casting strange shadows on the walls and the people crowded against them, only adding to the sense of tension in the tiny bunker. 

Wyatt chose to believe that it was that same breeze brushing through the station and disturbing the light that was causing the shivers in some of the people around him... and not the fear of being the winner.

A polite cough sounded out followed by a jolly shout of, “Well don’t keep us waiting in suspense, big guy.”

Wyatt scowled in the direction of the voice, knowing even before he saw him that the wisecrack belonged to the ginger-haired young man in the back of the crowd, but didn’t bother responding. Of course John D would be the one to make jokes right now. But, in that usual infuriating way of his, he was right. He was stalling. Why?

No. He knew why.

Inhale. Exhale. He looked down at the scores written down on the paper. “Votes for Angler are at five. John D got one--”

“Aw, shucks.”

“--shut up. Votes for Toby are three. And...” His voice trailed off, if only for a second. But it said it all, even before he confirmed it. Looking up from the paper to face the others, he hoped his face didn’t look as accusatory as it felt. “And the votes for me are six.”

Murmurs made their way from person to person, everyone glancing at each other to gauge the reactions of their fellows before all eyes came back to rest on him. Wyatt. The leader of The Railroad.

...Or what was left of it.

His fingers lingered on his jacket sleeve as he fought the urge to rub at his wrist where his skin itched under the bandages. It’d been over a week now but sometimes he swore he could still smell his own arm hair burning. It’d scar, he was sure... Just another reminder about how close he’d come to dying. One minute, relaxing on a cot under a burned down lawyer’s office, daydreaming about cram sandwiches in the morning. The next minute, John bursting in howling like Hell was on his fast on his heels, and then it was, and then the shooting and the screaming and the blood and the running and running and running and--

He took another breath. Held it. And pushed the memory away. 

“Thank you for your confidence. I... I can’t make promises about what’s going to happen next. HQ is gone. Agamemnon is dead. Five synths were reclaimed or killed in just two days. We’re all that’s left.”

Christ, already an inspiration, he was.

“Not gonna sugar coat it, people. We’re hurt bad, and everyone here lost someone they knew, someone they cared about.” And now the hard part. “Some people already left. Maria was scared for her kids. That’s fair. Goldie just wanted out. No shame in that. So I’m giving you your chance now. If you want to quit and go?” He waved a hand to the door. “There’s your exit.”

Like one beast, the group shuffled on its feet and tugged at sleeves and generally did anything but look back at him. But, finally, two people broke from the group and walked stiffly to the exit. One of them, a younger girl named Sadie, mumbled an apology before she was gone. Outside the reach of the light bulb, still swinging and swaying above the rest, the pair disappeared into the night.

Thirteen people, including Wyatt himself, remained.

Thirteen people who thought they had a fighting chance against an enemy with superior numbers, resources, and fighting power.

Thirteen of either the bravest or the most foolish people in the entire Commonwealth.

Wyatt sighed and smiled shakily. “Well. Let’s get started, people.”


	2. Chapter 2

# \--- February 4th, 2267 ---

"Kanpai!"

For once, Wyatt didn't wince at the sound of shouts in HQ. That was a good feeling in and of itself. He would be the first to tell anyone that, yes, he was a cynical son of a bitch who thought of the light at the end of the tunnel more likely to be a raider with a flashlight than anything else.

But today... today was good.

“What does that even mean,” asked Kelly K through her laughter and her beer. 

Songbird shrugged and replied after another sip of her own bottle. “I’m not actually sure. My mom used to say it all the time. Said it was from her mom who got it from her dad and so on. It’s...” She scratched at her chin in thought. “Japanese? Or Korean? Hell if I remember. But it means what it means.”

The group went to discussing what it sounded like to them, going from debate to joking argument as the opinions started to shift into Spanish or Swahili -- “I thought Swahili was a drink from the Commons?” “Shut _up_ , Toby.” -- and Wyatt left them to it to go sit in his makeshift office. The Super Duper mart that now served as their headquarters was fairly gutted inside, leaving only one room with a working door and intact walls. Wyatt had made it the de facto base for their terminals and files, with a locking mechanism known only to him and four other people in the group. And, known only to him, a self destruct device should they ever be invaded again.

If it ever came to that, at least. 

Outside his door, he could hear the spirited debate carry on, the answers becoming more and more outlandish. No, it was Maori. No, no, it was English, it was just a form of English they spoke only in California! More laughter erupted, followed by the sound of more bottles being opened. He was pretty certain everyone involved in knew that Songbird was right, but they just wanted to talk. Not about finding more ammo or disguises or codenames. Just... talk like real people did.

Of course there were some people who did that all the time anyway.

“Wyatt, my man!” John D draped an arm around Wyatt’s shoulders, his face lying against his neck. His long hair, blonde for now, tickled against Wyatt’s skin teasingly. “I for one can’t _believe_ you’re drinking here alone--”

Abruptly he broke off into a long, dry laugh that smelled of cheap moonshine. It was the perfume of the hour; the Railroad didn’t exactly have rainy day money saved aside for the good stuff, but John had somehow come back with two duffle bags full of local brew. Wyatt hoped that their doctor would be sober enough in the morning to care for all the other hangovers.

Wyatt waited patiently for John to stop laughing, rolling his eyes when the man finally said, “Okay, okay, even I can’t tell that one with a straight face. Cause, you know, we can all totally believe it.”

“I always love it when you and I have these little chats, John.”

The other man’s grin was radiant with deceit. “I know. Now...” He lowered his sunglasses, a new addition to his ever increasing wardrobe but apparently a favorite since Wyatt hadn’t seen him remove them for over a week now. “Why are you really hanging out in here instead of destroying your liver with the rest of us losers.”

Wyatt grunted and made a long show of lighting his cigarette, tapping out some of the ash with the smoke slowly seeping between his lips. But John D was waiting and patient as ever... that damn smile on his face the entire time. Finally, giving in like he knew he always did and always would, Wyatt sighed and told him what happened.

Like a light going out, John D stopped smiling. “When did this happen?”

“This morning. Your new tourist, what’s her name. Juniper? She sent the report in. Saw the whole thing.” He took another hard drag of the cigarette as his imagination went to town, filling in the scene that the old woman’s report had detailed. Sometimes he wished they weren’t so damn thorough. “Probably lucky she didn’t get shot full of holes.”

“Fuck.” John sat down, or rather flopped into the chair next to Wyatt’s, abandoning his bottle on the nearby desk. He looked so slumped and defeated that for a second Wyatt regretted telling him. “Just... fuck.”

The two men sat in silence, one nursing his cigarette and the other nursing a stare at the floor. Wyatt focused his eyes on his friend, partially out of concern but then partially out of distraction from his own thoughts.

Wyatt himself was a synth. It wasn’t something he told a lot of people; out of the now twenty agents in the Railroad, only John D and two others knew, and he was going to keep it that way. He didn’t want special treatment or pity or anything. And he sure as fuck didn’t want any of them to secretly wonder if their elected leader was actually an Institute spy. He wouldn’t blame them if they did. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, but... but they had other things to focus on than conspiracy theories.

So more than anyone, he knew exactly what was coming to the poor AA-32 now. He had seen the chamber, with the reclining chair all made of sleek metal and plastic... It was all clean and white, except for the great needles pointing skyward that tapered to a near hair-thin tip. And he knew where they would go into that unfortunate synth, once he was back home, and how quickly it would all be over. 

No. Instead he chose to remember DZ-27, who was now Dylan. A new face, no fake memories because he’d wanted to remember the people who helped him, and maybe even help others in the future too. How he’d cried tears of happiness when he had met them, gripping onto Wyatt’s arms like a drowning man being pulled from the sea. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

John’s voice was a welcome interruption.

“You didn’t tell the others.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No. Don’t plan to. We didn’t even know about this runaway yet. Just you and me so far. And besides.” Wyatt waved a hand to the door, where the buzz of conversation and clinking bottles could still be faintly heard. It was a struggle not to let his own voice raise; the last thing he wanted was to break up the party, however small it was. “They got a break. They got a fucking break. First synth safely out of the Commonwealth in months. DZ-27 is headed due West, further than the Institute ever bothers to send coursers. That’s the best damn news we’ve had since HQ burned.”

“I get that!” John took a breath and held it, staring at the ceiling for a bit. “I just... I don’t know. I know this is hypocritical coming from me and all, but it doesn’t feel right. Even if I get why.”

Yeah. Yeah, he got that.

Wyatt reached over and gave him a pat on the shoulder, an awkward attempt at comfort from a man who rarely knew how to give it. “You should go be with them. Tell them that thing you did, the one with the deathclaw in the ice cream shop.”

That got a smile back on John’s face. “You know it’s just another lie, right?”

“Yeah. It’s a good one though.”


	3. Chapter 3

# \--- March 10th, 2273 ---

John D was known for having a pretty cool persona. A smile ready on his sleeve, a funny quip prepared just in case. He was that type of guy.

So it wasn’t often that Wyatt got to see him shocked into silence.

Then again, he couldn’t quite enjoy the sight... given that he was in a similar state himself. He could only focus on the group of synths standing in front of him, shaking and trembling like leaves in a radstorm, All of them were still dressed in their white Institute uniforms now muddied and soaking wet from their escape, varied in appearances but sharing the same look of desperate hope.

Five. Five of them together. Christ.

John’s hand startled him, though he’d placed it so gently on Wyatt’s shoulder. “We gotta move fast,” he whispered.

Wyatt nodded almost numbly and then gestured to Songbird. “You. Get them new clothes, as different from each other as possible. Change their hair at least, we can get the surgery done at Diamond City with that new doctor of theirs later.” Another finger pointed to Kelly K, who did her best not to jump. “You. Go to Goodneighbor, talk to Amari about setting them up.”

“S-sir, she said her equipment is untested. She--”

“I know damn well what she said, Kelly, I heard the tape myself. _Go to Goodneighbor!_ ”

The girl squeaked and immediately fled, disappearing down the hallway. The remaining agents stood a little straighter and gritted their teeth a little tighter. Wyatt could hear the snap in his own tone, but he’d worry about hurt feelings later. But for now, he had five of his own people to worry about. Juniper had come running in at the crack of dawn 

His final point rested on John. “You. I need you to pick five runners to get to five different safehouses and tell them to make ready. You pick which and tell me later. Don’t tell anyone which synths are going to which, not even the runners themselves. You tell _me_. You understand?”

Maybe it was the sunglasses hiding his eyes that made his expression seem all the more grim, or maybe for once he wasn’t faking a jolly attitude to lighten the mood. Either way, Wyatt was relieved when John only nodded and ran off, grabbing one of his packs as he left. A piece of chalk fell out of it as he sped away, but there was no time to chase him down to give it to him. 

There was no time. For any of them.

As the crowd dissipated into their individual tasks, other senior agents delegating to their juniors to arm weapons and feed their new wards, the air suddenly filled with the noise of anxious conversation and hustling feet. Wyatt found himself standing alone in the center of the former market, illuminated by the only patch of sunlight that could get between the boards of the barricaded windows. He stared up at the sunlight, squinting, taking the brief moment of quiet while he could.

Predictably, it ended quickly.

“This stunt is going to get us killed.”

Wyatt glanced to his left, and straight into the eyes of Toby. Short but scrappy, sullen at any given time, a new heavy recruit from about a year ago. The Institute had kidnapped and replaced his father, something only discovered when the fake had completed its experiment with the local watering hole years later -- and had then been ordered to eliminate all related subjects. Toby wasn’t quite in it for synths so much as getting back at the Institute, but Wyatt could hardly blame him. He could fight, he was fast, and he spoke his mind.

“Every single one of us!”

Case in point.

“Possibly,” replied Wyatt dryly, knowing already there was no stopping his rant now.

Toby’s pointing finger trembled in the space between them. “No jokes. Not from you or John D. I’m fucking serious, the second you took those five in, you signed all our death warrants.”

Wyatt waited for him to pause before interjecting. “The second I took them in, I knew it was a risk. But that’s more synths than we’ve seen in the past _six years_ , Toby. More synths than have ever escaped, and under their own power. They deserve a chance.”

“I just think--”

Wyatt took a single step up into his space. He was a tall, broad man, not one to throw his size around lightly, but he could use it effectively when he did. Toby cowered, but only a little, to Wyatt’s respect. “They. Are going. To get. That. Chance. And you and I are going to do our best to make sure they get it. Aren’t we.”

Toby’s eyes glared holes back into Wyatt’s, but eventually he gave a long, slow nod. “I’m getting the heavies together. Establish a front line here, for when we need it.”

When. Not if. 

“Good idea.”

The smaller man opened his mouth, as if to try and get the final word in, before he stomped off. Wyatt’s own lips twitched, words unsaid left demanding to be spoken, but...

He went to his terminal, to record his thoughts. It always managed to calm him down in the past, to help him think more clearly and free up his anxious thoughts. He at least had time for that before diving back into the chaos. But, even as he set his fingers to the keyboard and started to type, deep down he knew the real reason for this urge.

He wanted to write today to make sure that that none of them were forgotten if the worst came to pass.


	4. Chapter 4

# \--- December 23rd 2273 ---

“I recovered this from Wyatt’s brain.”

For a long, silent moment, Pinky just stared at the piece of metal in the doctor’s outstretched hand.

He’d heard a lot of crazy shit since taking over leadership for the Railroad. Since he’d joined up for the fun and the rush as a stupid brat of a teenager nearly eight years ago, then stayed because he didn’t have much other choice now as a grown man who knew too much about the Institute to just walk back out into the Commonwealth without having a mark on his back. They had needed a leader who knew the area, who knew all the safehouses and routes and who knew how to use a bomb or two. And with John D -- no, _Deacon_ now, to the man’s unexplained insistence -- refusing to take over leadership by the grace of seniority, the vote fell to the only other senior member who’d survived the Super-Duper Mart being blown to Hell and back. Him.

It suddenly occurred to Pinky that he was still staring.

He blinked and shook his head, finally replying, “Tell me I did not just fuckin’ hear that you were messing with Wyatt’s _brain_.”

Doctor Amari winced a little but quickly found her backbone again, standing straight. “I hate to be crude, but it was hard not to. His remains were--”

Pink grimaced and held up a hand to stop her, even if it couldn’t stop his memory. “No, trust me. I know. But how did you even get a dead man’s shredded guts is what I want to know. That HQ is a ghoul nest by now.”

“Your man, John D? He brought the remains to me. He said he wanted him to be properly taken care of, even if he had to bring him in bags.” She shuddered visibly. “I thought he was crazy!”

“That’s a pretty common opinion.”

“But this! You know what this is.”

“Yeah.” Pinky held out his hand. When it fell from her fingers into his, it was lighter than he’d expected. It was smooth on one end with small, pulsing lights. The other end was smaller, with very precise-looking points that gave Pinky goosebumps on his arms.  “What is it?”

“It is... how to explain. Data storage. Synths of the current generation are mostly organic, more and more every day. But even so, they have nonhuman components that give them more capabilities than those they imitate or replace. This is an older version, larger than the ones I worked...”

Amari’s words dropped off for a moment before she cleared her throat.

“Than the ones I’ve seen so far. This means Wyatt was a fairly older synth. One of the earliest Gen Threes, really. I wish I could have talked to him, his models were free of many of the restrictions the Institute has placed on their latest creations. For him to die this way... what a waste...”

Pinky closed his fist around the item, the cool edges pricking his palm through his gloves. “So why’d you show it to me if John was the one to bring it up.”

She blinked at him, face blank. “He... he said that you _knew_ about this.”

Feh. Pinky grit his teeth tight and shook his head. “No. No he didn’t tell me.”

“Ah. Well...”

Both parties looked away. Amari shuffled on her feet in clear discomfort, maybe from being deceived by Deacon or by admitting her part in whatever little scheme the man had cooked up now. For his part, Pinky was staring at his fist and considering the short list of people he trusted. Or had trusted. Could Wyatt have called the Institute on them? It was hard for even him, cynical as he could be, to believe that Wyatt would’ve done that. His cold hatred of them was constant and intense, and this only proved why. But could it have been a lie? Just one giant fake story to get them all killed?

And Deacon. Fucking Deacon. He’d saved all their asses with those escape plans and dead drops. But there was no way he’d go to the trouble of recovering Wyatt’s body, to have it delivered to Pinky by way of the doctor, unless he had some sort of game going on. Pinky was probably just another piece in it, truth be told. And he had no idea where he sat on the board.

Not for the first time since he had taken over, since the mantle of glorious leadership had been thrust at him because there wasn’t even enough volunteers to _make_ a vote of it this time, he resisted the urge to just turn and walk away and put away the last piece of Wyatt away into his pocket.

It was Amari who finally broke it. “There is something else.” She turned and pulled a small wrapped item out of a drawer, pushing it into his hands. “Something a little odd.”

Raising an eyebrow at her for a moment, Pink ripped open the package. He half expected it to be Wyatt’s liver. But no, it was just a rusted holotape, with the letter _W_  written on a corner by a marker. Another thing of Wyatt’s? Records maybe? Christ, that’d actually be good news. Maybe it had records of supplies or possible hideouts. For now, Wyatt tried to think of it as a positive.

Then again...

“So why’s it odd?”

Amari's continued unease was obvious as she fidgeted. She was never good at hiding her feelings, unlike the people she chose to associate with. “John gave it to me, and he seemed very reluctant to give it up, but said you should have it. But... It’s not the original.”

Pinky glanced at the letter on the tape. “But this looks like Wyatt’s handwriting. His initial.”

“Please believe me, I checked over the coding myself. It’s definitely a copy.”

“So you’re telling me someone went to the trouble of finding his journal in the middle of a blown-out building and then make the copy of it look like it might be the original.”

“Y-yes... But why? It doesn’t make sense to me why someone would bother.”

Good damn question. Then again, why would someone bring a dead synth’s corpse to a doctor who specialized in them, unless they wanted someone to know? Why would someone bother to get the body at all? Why wouldn’t they go back to a ghoul-infested shell of a building in the first place?

And why was that ‘someone’ Deacon?


	5. Chapter 5

# \--- June 8th, 2276 ---

The cardboard box made a nice, satisfying thud as it hit the top of the desk separating Deacon and Pinky, especially when combined with the jangle and clatter of its contents. The landing barely missed landing on the first man's hands as he leaned over the desk. Not that he would have noticed, for all the holes he was glaring into Pinky's face. Even in the middle of the muggy summer night, with just a crescent moon and whatever electronics were still working in the ghost shell that was Boston, Pinky could see the rigidness on Deacon's face.

Or was it just another mask put on for show.

"You're giving me the boot."

Pinky rolled the cigarette in his pale mouth from one side to the other. He'd promised his mother never to smoke. She wanted him to live healthy and chem free. Just another promise he'd broken when he'd joined up with this outfit. "You sure do pick up fast."

"You're giving  _me_ the boot." The words were a repeat, but there was no mistaking the growing tension behind them. No, not growing. Final. This had been a long time coming. "Are you kidding me right now?

"Look. You know why I'm doing it, so drop the whole act for once."

Deacon jerked an arm out to the Commonwealth exposed to them by the gaping hole in the Trinity Tower's side. "You've got three packages running around out there while we're cozy out there, and you're taking the time to kick me out?"

"You showed up inside this tower as a fuckin'  _ghoul_ , Deacon. Kelly K almost shot you in the back."

And of course, Deacon being Deacon, he only smirked and replied teasingly, "What, you got something against ghouls, Pinky? That's not very chummy of you."

Pinky knew it was bait, he knew it, and it still set him off. Spitting the cigarette out over the edge, its hot glow disappearing into the dark, he turned his back on the runner. "You almost get shot in the face and you crack jokes. Typical."

"We all can't be serious martyrs like you, oh wonderful leader."

And there was the moment Pinky had been waiting for. For days. Though it felt like years. Without turning around, he quietly replied, "You mean more like Wyatt, right?"

The silence said enough.

"I know you dressed up like that to go get Wyatt's body. The Mart's practically a hive of them since we left." Only now did Pinky turn, facing Deacon again. For some reason, his eyes focused on the runner's eyebrows, where the blond dye was just starting to fade away. Huh. Never pegged him for a redhead. "Only way you could get in. Right?"

Deacon's mouth was a hard, taut line against the perfect stillness of his face. His pose was relaxed, leaning against the side of what had been some pencil-pusher's desk before radiation and time had rotted away its shine, but Pinky had been around this weasel of a man long enough to recognize when he was trying to look calmer than he was. But it was only ever the surface he saw with Deacon. And, he suspected, Deacon knew that too. It was like playing cards with your eyes blind and the other person allowed to give you whatever cards he felt like. 

"How'd you find out?" asked Deacon but the words barely got out of his mouth before Pinky talked over him.

"Don't play with me. You're the one who dropped his moldy fuckin' skull over to Amari." Now he moved forward on him, advancing with every sentence and a pointing finger jutting out accusingly. "I know you put together that whole ghoul costume to get it. I know you didn't tell anyone else. But you wanted me to know." His thin finger finally poked into the center of Deacon's chest. "Why? Why all the effort?"

A pause, then, "We needed the files."

"We keep terminals for a reason."

"And when they're shot full of more holes than Swiss cheese?"

"Tch." Pinky took a step back again. He couldn't keep still for long, his irritation driving him to fidgeting, like sticking his hands in his pockets and wishing he hadn't been so dramatic with the cigarette.

"Look," said Deacon in a diplomatic tone, his hands held out plaintively. "You wanted his files. Even told me you did."

"I know."

"And everyone else who knew the place was six feet under. Except you. And me."

Lacking for a cigarette, Pinky grinded his teeth instead. "I know."

"So... you're mad at me now? For actually doing you a f--"

Pinky slammed his hands down onto the desk so hard that the shock of it went up into his elbows. But the pain was worth it as he enjoyed his brief moment of satisfaction when Deacon jumped back a step. "I want to know why you made a copy of Wyatt's records for yourself, you son of a bitch!"

For once, Deacon looked like he was out of his element, his mouth hanging open and his body still held back away from Pinky like he might bolt any second. Pinky kept his eyes on him without blinking. He wanted to remember this look. He doubted he'd ever see it again.

"Was kinda hoping Amari wouldn't notice that," Deacon grumbled, relaxing a bit. He sounded almost pouty.

"Why did you make it?"

"Because it's always good to have a back-up. The place being more of a graveyard than a grocery store kind of proves my point, don't you think? And Wyatt asked me to."

"How convenient, the only man who can back you up is hamburger and wires now."

Deacon's next words were short and controlled. "Wyatt... was my friend. It was the least I could do for him now."

"Like how you kept his secret about him being a _synth_? Don't act like you didn't know. You could've buried him or burned him or whatever, but you take him to the closet thing we have to a synth tech that isn't holed up somewhere playing at being a mad scientist. And even before that, you never told anyone that he came from the Institute, maybe let us know that he  _could_ be a spy, without him even knowing it? You didn't tell me. Or Angler. Or Songbird. And now they're all dead. Except you. You and all your little games."

With a tone of finality, Pinky pointed to the door. "And that's why you're leaving this HQ."

He waited for Deacon to say something. Anything. In the moments that passed between them, their eyes locked onto each other, Pinky could almost imagine the excuses and stories piling out of the man's mouth for him. Hell, he could hear them already.

But Deacon never matched up to his expectations.

And proved it again by wordlessly picking up the box and walking out of the door.


End file.
